Dream a Little Dream of Me
by thehornedcasanova
Summary: With patience comes pain, and with pain comes nightmares. John waited long days and lonesome nights, faith never faltering and routine never changing until he came back, and when he did...


One could say that he had adapted by now; but one would be lying, or at least, observing a lie all on its own. He had counted down the days, and the weeks, and all of the wretched months that added up to a single year and still continued on without mercy. The days were endless and there was nothing he could do to pause or rewind, or even to accept.

"Maybe it's time to let go. Move on." Ms. Thompson, his therapist would advise.

"Just be happy now, dear." Ms. Hudson would plead.

And how could he, after all this time? He couldn't bring himself to move away his things that cluttered the living room, or put away his coffee mug that sat next to the sink, still stained at the bottom with black residue. Sometimes he tried to pretend that he would walk in one after noon and he'd be on the couch, grumbling insanely to himself with 3-5 nicotine patches up his arm like tattoos. He knew that day wouldn't come though. Even if he wished for it hard enough – wished upon a star, or prayed to a God. Even so, every week Sherlock had fresh flowers on his grave and that said it all.

~ o0o ~

It was raining outside. It wasn't unusual. It was an average occurrence and not significant to that particular day. It would be better to say that it finally stopped raining outside – around two in the after-noon, specifically. John had just gotten home from the little job he had taken up at the nearest grocer and sprawled himself on the bed. He shed the red vest and the name tag and traded it for one of his sweaters. He turned the heat up, hoping to rid the flat of the chilly air that blew in behind him.

A cup of tea would warm him up, perhaps. He sipped it as his eyes wandered out the window, thinking no particularly clear thoughts. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he absent-mindedly pulled it out, flipping straight to his messages and opening it up. He read it aloud to himself.

" Outside door."

There was no signature, and the number was "unidentified." He furrowed his brows and hesitantly opened the door. He looked around – right, left, peaking around the corner and down the hall before he finally noticed a little red bag in front of his door. He picked it up and quickly locked himself back in the flat. He sat it on the table and examined its exterior for a moment. It was an ordinary gift bag, with a matching card and ribbon with white paper concealing the contents. He pulled it out like stuffing from a pillow and tossed it aside.

Inside was a skull.

He quietly gasped, not really in shock or surprise, but mainly to provide some sort of reaction so that he felt like a person. He poked at it and quickly texted the mystery person back.

"Who are you?" he asked, sending it and awaiting a reply.

Five minutes went by and the soul behind the message sent their response and it said simply,

"Five."

He was unnerved. He placed the skull back in the bag, turned off his phone and placed the bag behind the couch, ignoring it. He continued to drink his tea, now tapping his foot nervously as he sat. He tried not to think about who sent the message or how they had gotten his address. He turned on the telly and watched anything that was on, and did so until he could hardly hold his eyes open and tea had gone cold. He crawled into bed, not bothering with his clothes or nightly chores.

Two days later he was cooking himself some breakfast and he received another text from the unidentified number. This time it said,

"I need a doctor."

He tried to ignore it but it bothered him all day long. As it slipped his mind, as he was crawling into bed, he got another message from the same number. It was a picture of the headliners from all the papers from that day. "Fake genius commits suicide", "Phony Holmes jumps from roof top". He threw the cellphone across the room and tears filled his eyes. His brain wrecked itself against the walls of his skull trying to forget. If only he could forget.

Sherlock was stubborn and Sherlock was insane, but Sherlock Holmes was not a liar; and that was something John knew for sure. Because out of all the Gods, and the headlines and the gossip John only believed in one thing: Sherlock Holmes. Underneath his pillow, he kept his old journal full of deductions and equations that he would try to make sense of late at night. It was like learning Chinese. You had to learn each individual character, then memorize the words, and then try and speak it with a foreigner's broken tongue.

He had turned it into a sort of scrapbook and pinned the few pictures of him that he owned to the pages with silver paperclips. By now he could probably tell you how many beauty marks he had, the shape of the birthmark on his shoulder and exactly how he got all his scars. On nights like these, he would lay there and read it until he fell asleep and awoke with it shading his face from daylight.

A few days later, what had become his daily message read,

"Get the door."

As he finished reading it the doorbell rang and his heart plummeted into his stomach. He hesitantly unlocked the door and answered.

"Delivery for John Watson." The man said, handing him a clipboard. "Sign here, please."

He scribbled his name almost illegibly and took the box from him. It was fairly small and only had his address on it with no return address or anything. He sighed and carefully opened it up. There was a purple scarf in it, neatly folded with a card on top. As he picked up the card he caught its familiar scent. It smelled of Sherlock's cologne and cigarettes and the smell made him sick with memory. He opened the card and it read,

"One," with a little house drawn next to it.

He threw the box at the wall, hitting the smiley face that still decorated its surface with golden paint. Someone was messing with him, and sending him some sort of count down. It made him nervous. When Sherlock was alive he experienced the wrath of two geniuses and began to fear that maybe Moriarty hadn't really died on the roof at all. Why would he want him anyhow? He made a bold move and called the number that was sending him these messages. It rang for a long moment before someone answered, but didn't speak.

"Listen, I don't know who you are or what you're trying to do to me, but stop. Stop it! " There was no answer, or any sign of life at all on the other line. "Do you hear me?! I'll take it to the Scotland Yar – "

"Don't." Someone said hoarsely. It wasn't threatening. It sounded almost weak. Then, without another word, they hung up.

John stood there for a moment before he hung up himself. He picked up the scarf and ran his fingers over the soft fibers. It was just like Sherlock's. He laid it over the back of his chair and tried to brush everything off once again. He grabbed his coat and went for a walk. He didn't bother to bring an umbrella even though it continued to drizzle. The thunder rumbled in the background and John kept on going even when his gut kept telling him to go home.

It began to pour outside again. The gutters of the houses and buildings began to fill and to drain. He was soaked by the time he caught a Taxi back to his flat and found the door wide open. He grabbed his pocket knife along with his wallet as he paid the cabbie and treaded carefully.

"Hello? Ms. Hudson, are you alright?" he called out. "The door was open and I didn't know i-"

"Oh, John! Come quickly!" he heard her sobbing. He ran quickly, knife in hand, peeking into all rooms until he found her, with her arms around a tall man. He turned to face him and John saw the face of a ghost. He dropped his knife. He was shaking as he tried to take in reality. The dark curls, the high, rosy cheeks, his voice…

"John…"

"S-Sherlock?" he whimpered in response. It was really him… wasn't it? Sherlock pulled him into a hug, but John didn't offer an embrace back. He thought that he must have been some sort of ghost. Were ghosts warm like him? Did they feel soft against your skin and leave you feeling tingly and numb?

Sherlock pulled back, his hands going to his face. Johns eyes were tearful, his face pale and expression full of disbelief.

"Y-You can't be…" John mumbled.

Sherlock shook his head. " I am."

"No… no. You're impossible."

The dark haired man sort of grinned as he nodded in agreement. "I am, aren't I?"

John grabbed his coffee mug and looked inside. "Black." He noted.

"Naturally - with two sugars."

Next he peeled off his coat and lifted up his sleeve. Three patches.

"I've been stressed." Sherlock justified as he frowned.

He grabbed his hands and looked at his nails; chewed from busy, thoughts. Finally, he undid a few buttons of his shirt and pulled on the sleeve to reveal his shoulder. There it was; as plain as day and as familiar as the scent of tea - The little, light brown birth mark.

Sherlock bent down to his height. "It's me, John. It's really me." He took his hand and pressed it to his chest so that he could feel the beat of his heart and the warmth of his skin. "I'm real. I'm aliv-"

John crashed into his arms, slamming them both into the wall. Ms. Hudson mewed in delight. She had _both _of her boys back; oh her lovely boys. She made them dinner that night, curry with potatoes and vegetables, and knowing that Sherlock had plenty of explaining and apologizing to do, left them alone for the night. She knew she would have plenty of time with him later on.

John gave him a look caught between the appearance of disbelief and adoration; a look that never faltered through the night. He was solid, he was warm, but still, he couldn't bring himself to believe that it was really him. Maybe it was another cruel dream, and he was sound asleep. If so, he never wanted to wake up again. He could die in a coma, as long as he could stay there; with Sherlock.

Sherlock reached across the table and gently touched John's hand.

"I had to make you watch." He said after a long moment of silence. "I had to make you believe I was dead."

"But why, Sherlock? This doesn't make sen-"

"Just listen to me, John. I wasn't alone on that roof top. Moriarty… had me cornered. If I didn't jump he would have each of you slaughtered – Ms. Hudson, Lestrade, you… When I found my way out, he closed the door in my face. He killed himself, because he was the only one that could call off the assassins when I jumped but then… he shot himself in the head! Then I had to. I had to save you, John. Please understand." He could see the distress in his eyes. He was begging.

Sherlock Holmes was begging for forgiveness.

John huffed. "You could have told me. You could have let me know!"

No later than his sentence was finished Sherlock snapped back. "No! I couldn't have. I needed your reaction to be authentic. I wasn't going to take a chance on loosing you. If anything went wrong at all then they would kill you, John."

At his angle, it appeared that Sherlock's eyes filled with tears. John took a moment to cool down. "How'd you do it? I saw you fall. I-I saw your brains on the side walk and… and your blood! I-"

"I knew that I would have to make a decision." Sherlock began. "Before hand, I went to Molly and we made a plan… it's complicated."

"It's complicated?"

Nothing had ever been "complicated" for him before. Not the most complex combinations of elements or even the longest formulas in the books or all the quantum bullshit but this wasn't that sort of "complicated." Sherlock stood and walked to John's side and took his hands in his.

"Oh, yes. It was the most complicated thing I've ever had to do…" he leaned in and kissed his knuckles. "Because… I had to leave you."

John sat stunned before Sherlock and witnessed a single tear roll down his cheek. He suddenly slid out of his chair and onto the floor, wrapping his arms tightly around Sherlock. Against his chest, he could feel his heart beating against him. He closed his eyes and fought back sobs.

"God, I missed you." He whispered into his curls.

Sherlock gently pulled away and pressed his forehead against Johns. His eyes peered into his and offered asylum.

"I won't leave again. I promise. Not like that." He murmured to John.

He pressed his lips to his, sliding his fingers into his hair. John leaned into the kiss, warmth spreading from the core of his body, reaching out and catching Sherlock in its grasps and luring him in. His hands came up to John's sweater and undid the first 3 buttons; a sign as if to almost ask permission as he slowly pulled away. He lifted his shirt over his head then pulled off his own.

He trailed sweet little kisses down his chest. Sherlock kicked off his pants and wrapped his legs around John's waist, straddling his hips, kissing up his neck. John groaned and grinned to himself, taking in the man's scent. It wasn't his usual cologne, but something different that filled him with a much sweeter feelings upon smelling it. He squeezed him tighter and kissed his shoulder.

Sherlock pulled back and took Johns face in his hands with concern.

"J-John…" he stuttered quietly.

John gave his full and patient attention. "What is it?"

"I'm… I still… I…"

John tried to comprehend what he was saying. "You… what?"

"This… isn't my forte." Sherlock finally admitted.

John smiled to himself. He hadn't changed; an immaculate mind with insecurities. His hands trailed up his back. "Sherlock, that's absolutely fine. It's… it's not a contest." John laughed.

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched up slightly upon hearing those words. He was finally home. Home where even if the world judged him and called him a fake, phony, a fraud… John believed in him. While the world hardly shed a single tear from him, John could have filled an ocean. Sherlock kissed him roughly, using more force than what he intended trying to consume every ounce of didn't mind at all. In fact, he encouraged it. He pulled Sherlock into his old bedroom where everything remained the same. Sherlock froze and looked around.

"_You kept it all."_ He observed in surprise. The only difference was that his papers and studies were in neat piles rather than sprawled across the room in a craze. John smiled.

"I couldn't bring myself to get rid of everything when I couldn't even believe that you were dead in the first place. I waited for you every day. Everyone told me that I should move on and give up but… I believed in y-"

Sherlock shoved him onto the bed with a rough kiss. Clothes quickly came off, insecurities soon after fleeting and gentle lips meeting soft skin. They fought for dominance in a very eager way, as if they were arguing over who missed who more and who wanted to please the other most. Sherlock won, their nose brushing as he pulled away from a kiss after slamming him into the mattress. They chuckled and Sherlock reached over into his top drawer for a small bottle of lube.

He pressed his cock against John's entrance and let the thin, warming liquid help him ease himself into him. John's lips parted slightly at the sensation of being filled. Sherlock's hands found his own and they held each other's.

"Alright?" He whispered.

John nodded in reply. He slowly began to thrust his hips, trying not to hurt his lover. John could care less about being so cautious. He was fine – more than fine… He was so very happy. He grabbed Sherlock by the hips and pulled him close so that he would go deeper into him. John moaned. The sound itself rather than the action left him with a craving for more. It was knowing that he was pleasing John enough for him to reduce himself to a pile of putty in his hands that satisfied him. His own pleasure didn't appeal to him, although he didn't mind. Sherlock pulled him up and switched places with him, without removing himself, so that John could lead him. The blonde kept his hands in his, looking down to him with half lidded eyes. He rolled his hips and Sherlock's body clenched. John smiled.

"Come on." he whispered. "Don't be afraid to move."

Sherlock met his movements with a thrust and gasped with him. Things quickly picked up speed. The bed began to creak, voices became louder and their lives became a little less secret to people beyond the thin walls of their flat. John cried out his name, gasping as his prostate was hit.

"S-Sherlock! Oh, god!"

Sherlock's head fell back and his nails dug into John's thighs. "I think I'm going to cum." He mumbled softly, his cheeks flushed. John felt Sherlock about to lift him and began to ride him harder.

"No!" he protested. "Inside. Cum inside."

How could he argue? John grabbed his wrists and pinned his arms above his head as he gave his final thrusts. He felt a warmth slowly fill him to the brim and he collapsed on top of Sherlock, breathless and satisfied. They laid in silence, giving gentle caresses until Sherlock looked to John and found him sleeping peacefully for the first time after leaving the military and after Sherlock's "death". Sherlock smiled to himself and placed kiss on his head.

"Happy Valentine's day, Joh-"

John jolted out of the dream, patting the space next to him only to be greeted by cold and empty space.

"Sh-Sherlock?!" he cried hoarsely. "Sherlock… please!"

Of course... There was no Sherlock; not anywhere. Sherlock Holmes was dead. How could he be fooled? He brought his knees up to his chest. It was early morning, maybe about four a.m., and cold as hell. He began to sob uncontrollably, not able to wipe his tears fast enough.


End file.
